


keep it subliminal

by carissima



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Filming, First Dates, M/M, Shopping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-05-30 19:38:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19410013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carissima/pseuds/carissima
Summary: Miro smothers a yawn and opens his door. Roope’s standing there with two coffees and an expression that matches his own mood.





	keep it subliminal

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [splatticus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/splatticus/pseuds/splatticus) in the [PuckingRare2019](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/PuckingRare2019) collection. 



> thank you bee for the beta and julia for the uh, Dallas-beta I guess? either way, thanks!
> 
> this definitely didn't match the prompt to the letter and i'm really sorry about that, i took the heart of the prompt though so i hope that counts!

Miro smothers a yawn and opens his door. Roope’s standing there with two coffees and an expression that matches his own mood.

“For you,” Roope says, not making any move to step inside. “Camera crew are downstairs. You ready to go?”

“No,” Miro says honestly but he takes the coffee Roope’s offering to him and grabs his keys, phone and wallet before he follows Roope out.

The coffee is hot and full of caffeine, which is all he asks of his morning drink. Roope is the coffee connoisseur, although he’s an amateur compared to Connor. The logo is from one of Roope’s favorite coffee shops downtown, which means he made a special trip just to pick them up.

The crew are waiting for them outside with what looks like a vanful of recording equipment. “Morning boys,” one of them says and pulls himself upright from where he’d been lounging against the white vehicle. “Can we have your keys, Miro? Just need to put some of these cameras in your car so we don’t miss any footage.”

“Sure,” Miro says and tosses him the keys. He doesn’t know what exactly they think they’re going to capture that would be of any interest to anyone. Mostly, he and Roope talk hockey and food and workouts and whatever they watched on Netflix the night before. And they don’t even do it in English.

Today, of course, they’re expected to talk in English all day, which Miro is not particularly excited about. He’s dreading it, actually.

“What’s up?” Roope asks him with a little nudge of his elbow, a tiny frown marring his face.

“Cameras,” he says flatly and sips at his coffee. It’s rich and hot, with a huge dollop of cream to sweeten it. “No caramel?”

“Oops,” Roope says with false innocence, since he’s grinning widely. “Must have forgotten. Sorry.”

Miro makes a disbelieving noise, since Roope frequently “forgets” Miro’s favorite coffee syrup. But he takes another sip anyway and feels marginally better than two minutes ago, so he guesses that’s something.

“And don’t worry about the cameras, I’ll make sure you look interesting and smart,” Roope says.

Miro doesn’t detect any sarcasm in his voice, but he rolls his eyes anyway. “You’re the one who kept asking the waitress for ‘bear’, dumbass.”

“Beer,” Roope says, stressing the right pronunciation, “is a stupid English word. It should be pronounced bear!”

Miro grins, it’s one of his favorite stories from this year. He’s told it to everyone he knows. Mostly, he’s impressed that Roope’s teammates last year kept quiet about it, letting him order ‘bear’ night after night.

He starts laughing.

“Shut up,” Roope says, good-naturedly. “At least I’m old enough to drink here. You’ve said stupid shit since you moved here too, you know.”

“Hey guys, we’re all set up so we can go whenever you’re ready,” the producer interrupts - Miro thinks his name might be Mike, but he’s not sure so he keeps quiet. “Just talk about whatever you want, we’ll edit everything later so don’t worry too much about cursing or anything. If you can try not to, that’d make our job easier though. Just remember you’re being filmed and everything should be easy.”

“Sure,” Roope assures him with a bright smile.

Miro manages a small smile and then they’re climbing into Miro’s car with instructions to head to one of the shopping centers north of the city.

“You been here before?” Miro asks as he drives, switching lanes easily and glancing in his mirror to make sure the camera crew are following him.

“Don’t think so,” Roope says. He’s lounging in the passenger seat with his sunglasses on and his blonde hair peeking out beneath a Stars cap. “Dallas fashion isn’t really my thing.”

“Too many cowboy hats?” Miro says with a laugh.

“They’re too big,” Roope says and reaches up to adjust his own hat in the mirror.

“You mean they’d cover up your precious hair,” Miro teases dryly.

Roope flicks him a grin. “And my beautiful face,” he says. “What a crime.”

“English, remember?” Miro reminds him, since they’d both slipped back into Finnish without thinking.

Roope wrinkles his nose but he nods and they settle into a stilted conversation about the best places to shop when they’re on the road.

The heat hits them as soon as they step out of the car, and Miro barely has a moment to smooth a hand over his hair before the camera crew is in front of them, making hand signals like they’re already filming.

Miro immediately feels anxious, like he has to say something incredibly smart or funny yet his mind goes blank.

A familiar hand settles on his hip. “Let’s get inside before the humidity makes your hair look even worse.” Roope starts moving and Miro goes with him without really thinking about it.

“Wait,” he says, just as Roope’s about to step inside and AC is a blissful second away. “What do you mean, worse?”

Roope just laughs and pushes through the door while Miro scowls at him.

It’s only partly for the benefit of the cameras.

*

“You look good, bro,” Roope says admiringly as Miro steps out of the changing rooms of the third store they visit. He’s sprawled out in a comfy-looking chair, looking right at home among the expensively priced clothes and garish colors that make Miro feel wary and a bit anxious. He hadn’t wanted to try anything on in front of the cameras, but after two stores, one of the producers had very kindly but firmly insisted that he at least try something on and Roope had thrust two pairs of dark jeans into his hands with a grin.

Miro had expected the worst, considering Roope’s style. But he’d been pleasantly surprised to find that they were just regular skinnies, no rips, no neon stripes running down the seam, no weird patterned pockets.

“They’re pretty expensive,” Miro says as he looks in the full length mirror.

“And you’re gonna get paid with your next contract,” Roope says, rolling his eyes like Miro’s being dumb.

He’s not being dumb. He’s just not spending more money than he has, and he’s not an idiot, anything could happen between now and his next contract. An injury, something that sends him back home to play instead of the NHL, a fallout with management. He’s seen a lot this year, for sure, and he’s not taking anything for granted.

“They look really good,” Roope says, unfolding his big body to lope towards Miro. His hand runs down Miro’s thigh and he hooks his chin over Miro’s shoulder so they’re both looking in the mirror together. “They almost fit perfectly, even over these,” he says and rubs his thumb over the outer seam of Miro’s thigh. “They make your ass look great too.”

Miro flushes and shoves him away, both of them laughing while Miro turns and tries to look over his shoulder. “Do they?” he murmurs in Finnish. It’s cheating but Roope just sends him a careful look and nods.

“I wouldn’t lie to a teammate about his ass,” he replies softly. Then he switches to English because they can both see one of the producers waving their hands furiously at them from behind the camera. “Buy five pairs. There’s probably five boring shades of blue and black here.”

Miro rolls his eyes but he takes two pairs - one dark blue, one faded black - and makes Roope put the white and red pairs back on the rack, despite his protests that Miro needs to brighten up his wardrobe.

“Just one more store, guys,” one of the crew tells them so Roope chooses one with the most obnoxiously bright window display and Miro shakes his head at every single item of clothing that Roope tries to make him try on. There’s not a white, navy blue, black or gray piece of clothing in sight, so he settles himself on a stool outside the changing room and waits for Roope’s fashion show to begin.

“Not a fashion risk taker, eh?” one of the camera crew asks him. They’ve been doing this a bit, easing them into talking with a simple question. Miro supposes it’s better than filming him checking his phone or drumming his fingers as he waits for Roope to finish.

“I uh, I like simple stuff,” he says after a few beats. He remembers to smile for the camera and gets a thumbs up from the cameraman for his trouble. “Roope and Seggy, they like these clothes. They look good in them. I’d look, uh, -” he pauses, unsure of the word.

“Uncomfortable?” the cameraman supplies helpfully.

“For sure,” Miro nods. “I don’t like to draw attention to myself. I like to be comfortable.”

“Don’t believe a word he says,” Roope calls out from behind the curtain. “Everyone saw your ugly-ass Christmas sweater.”

Miro laughs. “You chose it for me!” he yells back.

Then the curtain draws back and Roope steps out in some truly awful lime green jeans and a blue and white patterned shirt.

“Wow,” Miro says dryly. “Ouch.”

Roope throws him a grin. “You don’t think they match?”

Miro just sighs and shakes his head.

“I wouldn’t wear them together,” Roope says, like he didn’t wear a pair of red skinnies rolled up at the ankle and a purple shirt with yellow stripes just three days ago at a post-game celebration. “How’s my ass?” he asks in Finnish, just to be an asshole.

“Terrible,” Miro says flatly. Roope pouts at him though so Miro stands up and walks around him with a thoughtful expression. “I’ve see your ass look better,” he says truthfully. In Finnish.

“English, guys,” someone yells at them.

“What do you think about the shirt?” Roope says in his brightest, most fake tone. “Makes my shoulders look good, right?”

Miro doesn’t think he’s ever given much thought to how a shirt makes anyone’s shoulders look before, but he’s a good bro so he steps back and tilts his head. “Yeah,” he says, slightly surprised. He’s played with Roope long enough to know the exact shape of his body, in and out of skating gear. He reaches up and runs his hand over the material where it sits on Roope’s collarbone. Now that he’s actually looking properly, he thinks the shirt looks really good on him.

“What about the color?” Roope asks and glances in one of the mirrors surrounding him.

“Really brings out the color of your eyes,” Miro says honestly. “It looks good, bro.”

“Yeah?” Roope looks ridiculously pleased at the compliment and Miro immediately feels bad about not paying enough attention in the first few stores. He’d mostly rolled his eyes at everything and given one or two word answers about whatever terrible clothing choices Roope had been trying on at the time.

Now that he’s looking, he realizes that Roope came out of those stores without any purchases. Exhaling slowly, Miro nods firmly and runs his hand down the length of Roope’s back. The shirt material feels good under his touch; soft and fine. “It looks good from the back too.”

Roope nudges him with an elbow and squints at him. “So yes to the shirt, no to the pants?”

“Definitely,” Miro says, unbearably pleased that he won’t have to be subjected to neon lime jeans anytime soon. “Your ass is too good for them,” he says in Finnish, which makes Roope laugh all the way back to the fitting rooms.

Miro takes a seat in his chair and shoots the camera a grin. “How much did he take in there?”

“At least four more outfits,” a producer tells him, looking more relaxed than she’s looked all day.

Miro nods sagely and settles more comfortably into his seat. He suddenly feels like he could do this all day.

*

They head off to their next location with Miro’s backseat full of branded bags, mostly from the last store they visited.

“Where are we going next?” Roope asks.

Miro names the restaurant that he’d been given from a producer and signals to take a left turn. “It’s a steakhouse,” he says dryly. “It’s always steak here.”

Roope laughs because it’s not the first time Miro’s complained about Texan cuisine. “There are lots of other restaurants,” Roope says. “We had sushi last night.”

“Because I was allowed to choose,” Miro grumbles. It’d just been the two of them, Janny and Esa. “Whenever the American’s choose, it’s always steak.”

“To be fair, some of them are Canadian,” Roope says innocently.

Miro narrows his eyes. “You can’t tell the difference unless it’s an international game,” he points out.

Roope grins. “That’s fair,” he concedes and then they’re pulling into the parking lot.

The steakhouse is almost empty so they’re seated quickly by a waiter who clearly doesn’t know who they are but is starstruck anyway by the cameras being set up to focus on them. Miro watches him fidgeting behind the crew, clearly waiting until he gets the all-clear to take their order. Then Miro’s gaze drifts past him, idly taking in the rest of the restaurant. He hasn’t been to this one before. Mostly, all steakhouses look the same to him with their obsession with wooden decor and loud country music, but this one is different. He’d know if he’d been here before because this is exactly the type of restaurant that he’d choose if he was going on a date. There’s fancy tablecloths on all the tables, with roses in vases as centerpieces. The cutlery is set, instead of shoved together in a pot. The only music he can hear is a faint instrumental, playing loudly enough to hide any silence but not so loud that it’s intrusive.

“Uh,” he says and nudges his foot against Roope’s under the table.

“What?” Roope kicks him back without looking up from his menu, which he’s studying with his usual eye to detail. He’s obsessive about food in a way that Miro really isn’t.

“Does this place look uh, look a bit, uh,” Miro stumbles over his words, hyper aware of the cameras and the nervous waiter and the fact that the Dallas Stars PR team have seemingly sent their rookies on a lunch date.

“It looks fine,” Roope says distractedly in Finnish. “Don’t bitch about steak on camera, you’ll get traded the moment it airs.”

“I’m not stupid,” Miro answers in English and kicks him again. Tablecloths have their uses.

Roope shrugs so Miro tries to kick him again but Roope catches his foot between his calves and grins at him. “Cameras, remember?”

Miro huffs but after a few seconds pass, he relaxes.

“Right, we’re all set up, guys,” Producer Maybe-Mike says and gives them a reassuring smile. "Go ahead.”

The waiter appears beside Roope immediately, his eyes bright as he keeps glancing between them and the cameras. “Can I take your order?” he asks breathlessly.

“The grilled chicken salad and a coke, thanks,” Roope says with a smile and hands over his menu.

Miro, who hasn’t even glanced at his menu, goes absolutely blank. “I’ll have the same, thanks,” he says and hands back his menu with a grimace.

Roope, to his credit, is trying not to laugh at him.

“I panicked,” Miro mutters, eying up the pretty red rose sitting between them.

“Don’t worry, you can get the steak next time,” Roope tells him with a grin.

Miro groans and wads up a napkin to throw at him.

*

“Right, boys, you get a choice of where to go next,” Producer Maybe-Mike tells them. They’ve cleared their plates, had dessert and they’ve been talking idly about their playoff chances for the past few minutes. Roope thinks they’re definitely extending their season but Miro’s more cautious. He’ll believe it when they clinch the points. “The depository or the arboretum.”

Miro looks across the table but Roope looks as confused as he feels. “What’s a depository?” he asks, careful with his pronunciation.

“It’s a museum now,” the producer tells him. “It’s the scene of JFK’s assassination.”

Miro wrinkles his nose. He doesn’t really know who JFK is and he’s definitely not into museums.

“Oh, where that guy got shot?” Roope asks, and Miro smothers a laugh at the horrified look that passes over the producer’s face. “Nah, we’re good. Let’s go see some trees, kid, yeah?”

“Sure,” Miro says. In the time it takes the camera crew to pack up, they’ve paid the check and gone to Miro’s car to wait. “We’re going to see trees?”

“It’s like a huge park with lots of little parks,” Roope says with a shrug. “It’s peaceful. And pretty, I guess.”

“Oh,” Miro says and tries very hard not to think about how romantic that sounds. “Have you been there before?”

“Yeah,” Roope says and throws him a grin. “Took a date there.”

“Oh,” Miro says again and tries not to sound as strangled as he feels. “How’d it go?”

“Got a second date,” Roope says smugly.

Miro swallows hard. “Nice,” he manages and throws the car into gear.

*

They’ve been wandering around the different gardens for almost half an hour, following the camera crew who seem to know what they’re looking for.

“I thought we’d be done by now,” Roope says, glancing upwards. The sun is low in the sky and the air is starting to feel a little cooler. “You think they’ve got more planned?”

“I hope not,” Miro says. He has no idea how much footage they need for a 20 minute feature on them, but he thinks they’ve probably got enough already.

“Here looks good,” one of the crew says - Miro really has to start learning their names - and when he looks over, he blinks in surprise.

They’ve chosen a bench facing away from the sun so it’ll be behind them as they sit. There’s a lot of green around them with colorful flowers and blossoms everywhere and he can hear a waterfall somewhere, even if he can’t see it.

“Cosy,” Roope says with a laugh and sits himself down on the bench, taking up way too much room and slinging an arm along the back frame. “Wanna join me?”

“Not particularly,” Miro mutters but he sits down anyway. Roope’s hand slides over his shoulder and rests there lightly as the crew move around them, setting up cameras and microphones to pick up their conversation.

“Alright, so time to start talking, boys,” Producer maybe-Mike says.

Miro looks over at Roope, who wrinkles his nose and looks kind of uncomfortable.

“Uh,” Miro says, hoping for inspiration but nothing hits.

“You could talk about what it’s like being here in Dallas,” someone suggests helpfully.

“Uh,” Miro says again. “It’s uh, nice? It’s pretty good. Good to be here.” Roope snickers next to him and Miro shoots him a glare. “I don’t see you talking.”

“I’ve been in Texas a year already, two I guess now,” Roope says. His thumb is moving over Miro’s shoulder in idle circles. Miro’s not sure he knows he’s doing it. “It’s pretty different to home.”

“Really different,” Miro agrees. “But the guys have been really good, helping us settle in and feel at home. It’s a good group.”

“And it’s been nice to have this kid here this year,” Roope adds, giving his shoulder a squeeze. Miro presses his knee against Roope’s and lets it rest there. “We’ve been teammates before, obviously. But this year we’ve leaned on each other.”

“Yeah,” Miro agrees. “Hinee’s been my best friend in Dallas. We’ve known each other for years but it’s been good to have someone to share this with, it’s really brought us closer.” The producer nods at him and makes a ‘go on’ gesture at him so Miro tries to cover his panic at having to find even more words to explain something he’s never given much thought to before. “Uh. Someone who understands what it’s like to come over from home. It’s helped me to have someone who’s already been here and done this for a season. I’ve felt comfortable the whole time I’ve been here.”

“Yeah,” Roope says, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. “You’ve played more games than me though so it’s almost like you’re the veteran. I keep bouncing up and down, just trying to make the team, but it’s always nice to walk into the room and see Miro there, for sure.”

Miro turns to him, mid-frown. “You’ve made it,” he says quietly. “They’re not sending you down again.” He puts his hand on Roope’s thigh. “That’s your line now, no one else’s.”

Roope stares at him for a long beat, before his face relaxes and he finally looks back towards the camera. “See? I’ve got my own hype man right here.”

“Anytime,” Miro says and he means it. He’s known Roope for years and he’s never known him to show even the slightest lack of confidence before. If he needs hyping, Miro’s gonna do it all day long.

“Great, well I think that’s a wrap,” Maybe-Mike says, looking pleased.

“Really?” Roope asks, taking his arm away from where it’s been resting across Miro’s shoulders and stretching around a yawn. “That was quick.”

“I think we covered everything we were hoping for,” Maybe-Mike assures him.

“So that’s it, we’re done?” Miro asks hopefully.

Maybe-Mike looks over his shoulder and has a quick conversation with one of the girls behind him. “Sorry guys. One last quick trip to the Reunion Tower.”

Roope snorts. “The Reunion Tower at sunset?”

“You’re not the only ones we’re promoting here,” Maybe-Mike says with a grin. “Dallas at sunset at 500 feet will give us a stunning backdrop.”

“Oh yeah,” Miro agrees weakly. “Stunning.”

*

The observation deck seems evenly split between tourists taking non-stop photographs of the views and couples wrapped around each other, taking selfies and sharing kisses. Miro thinks that the two of them stick out like sore thumbs, even without the eight-person camera crew following them around and taking up the best spot to shoot from.

“You been up here before?” Roope asks. He’s leaning against the railing, his hands clasped in front and he’s looking at the view.

Miro has to admit that Dallas looks beautiful from up here. “Yeah,” he says and mirrors Roope’s stance. “Not at sunset though. It’s pretty.”

“You’re probably gonna spend the next eight, nine years here at least,” Roope says casually. “It’s a good city.”

“It’s gonna be your home too,” Miro says. He doesn’t glance over to Roope but he does bump his arm against Roope’s and ends up kind of leaning against him while they look out over the city.

The crew are still arguing quietly behind them, trying to find the best angle to shoot from with the best view, so when Roope slips his phone out of his pocket and nudges Miro with a grin, he accepts the inevitable and turns around, crowding in close under Roope’s arm and giving his best media smile as Roope angles his phone just right.

“Bro, you’ve got the worst selfie face,” Roope tells him for the millionth time. “Smile for real.”

“I am!” Miro protests. He hates selfies. He’s not a natural, like Roope, but then again, he hasn’t ever practiced in the mirror to find his best angles, like Roope has.

“That’s tragic,” Roope snickers so Miro pulls his blandest expression for the next attempt. Roope fucking loses it and Miro ends up laughing too, and the selfie Roope accidentally takes mid-laugh is actually pretty sweet. They’re both still looking at Roope’s screen when a guy in front of them gestures towards Roope’s phone.

“Hey, you want me to take a picture of you together?” he asks. He’s smiling and looking between them expectantly.

“Oh uh,” Miro says, about to correct him because he definitely thinks that he and Roope are one of the many couples up here, sharing a romantic moment, when Roope rolls his eyes at Miro and hands over his phone.

“Sure, thanks man,” Roope says with an easy grin for the guy. His arm comes around Miro’s waist and it’s natural for Miro to lean back against him, his hand on Roope’s lower back. “Don’t forget to smile this time, babe.”

Miro manages a real smile.

“Thanks,” he says when the guy hands the phone back.

“No problem,” the guy says and wanders off.

“I guess this really isn’t a hockey town,” Miro says dryly. “No one’s recognized us all day, even with the cameras.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Roope says, clearly distracted by something on his phone. A few seconds later, Miro’s own phone pings. He checks the screen to find Roope’s sent him eight photos.

“Alright, I think we’re ready,” one of the producers says, sounding harried. “We’ve got about ten minutes before the light completely goes. Let’s talk about your favorite memories of this season so far.”

Roope shoots him a weary glance but they put on their best media faces and start talking.

*

The crew remove all the cameras from Miro’s car, say their goodbyes and thank them again for being so accommodating, and then it’s just the two of them. Miro turns the radio up and listens to Roope humming along, tapping his own fingers against the wheel as he turns the car towards home.

It’s dark when he pulls into his parking space. They’ve spent the entire day together and yet when he climbs out of his car and sees Roope digging his pocket for his keys, he blurts out: “Wanna come up? I can order takeout.”

Roope looks up, his hand stilling. “Yeah,” he says, to Miro’s complete surprise. “Sushi?”

Miro laughs, mostly in relief that Roope’s not getting in his car and driving away, and locks his own car. “If you want,” he says and they head up to his apartment. “What about Italian?”

“Steak?” Roope suggests and laughs when Miro groans and smacks him in the shoulder. “Alright. Pizza?”

Miro orders their food while Roope settles himself on the couch and turns on the TV, skipping through channels until he finds a Jets game.

“Really?” Miro says as he puts their drinks on the coffee table and takes a seat next to him. “The Jets?”

“Gotta study the opposition,” Roope says with a shrug. “We might meet them in the playoffs.”

“Don’t let Laine get the puck, don’t get hit by Buff, shoot high,” Miro parrots in a fair imitation of Todd.

Roope snickers and they sit back to watch the game. The pizza arrives halfway through the second period and they demolish it before the last intermission. Miro’s stomach is full, he’s spent the last 12 hours with Roope, talking about all kinds of stuff that they don’t normally talk about, like how much they like each other and playing with each other, and Roope’s currently in the middle of explaining to Miro why the Jets are seemingly imploding at this point in the season, like Miro doesn’t already know. The lights are dimmed and Miro’s knee is resting against Roope’s thigh, and he can’t seem to stop himself from inching closer, like his body is seeking the warmth of Roope’s.

“Today was good,” Miro says, when Roope eventually runs out of criticisms of the Jet’s penalty kill. Roope raises his eyebrows at the abrupt change of topic, but Miro powers through. “I enjoyed it more than I thought I would.”

“What’s not to like?” Roope asks. He’s got his arm flung over the back of the couch and his feet up on the coffee table. He’s only an inch or two taller than Miro but he takes up so much space wherever he is that Miro always feels small next to him. “You got to see Dallas, find the perfect pair of jeans and spend your day with me.”

“Yeah,” Miro says, a little more honestly than he means to be. “It was really, really good.”

“Yeah,” Roope says and leans into him for a moment.

“It was uh, funny when that guy took our picture, huh?” Miro says, the thought bubbling out of him before he can stop it. “Do you think he thought we were a, uh. A couple?”

He’s expecting Roope to laugh, but he just shrugs and his mouth twists into a weird half-smile. “I guess. I mean, we did kinda spent the whole day on one long first date.”

And Miro’s breath catches in his throat at the echo of his exact thoughts being spoken aloud by Roope. Oh, he thinks breathlessly.

Because during their romantic lunch, after Roope had put a stop to Miro’s kicks, they’d spent most of their time with their feet pressed together. His heart feels like it’s pounding out of his chest, it’s beating so loudly. Because he might be reading this wrong, like maybe Roope hadn’t meant anything by pressing up against him at the store, or not correcting the guy at the Tower.

He puts his hand on Roope’s thigh and holds his breath. He can feel a muscle move in Roope’s leg but he doesn’t pull away, or ask Miro what the fuck he’s doing, so Miro exhales slowly. He doesn’t do anything else, just breathes slowly, and waits for Roope to do something. Anything.

The third period starts, but Miro isn’t paying attention. He’s staring at his hand, at the way his fingers are spread, his thumb so close to the inseam of Roope’s inseam. He’s so busy looking at his hand that he almost jumps out of his skin when Roope’s arm settles over his shoulders, just like it had at the arboretum. Miro breathes, in and out, in and out, as Roope’s fingers stroke his arm, just where his sleeve ends and there’s nothing but skin.

It feels like they’re both holding their breath, but by the time the game ends, they’re undeniably cuddling on the couch, their bodies angled towards each other, Miro’s thumb stroking slow, firm lines back and forth over Roope’s inner thigh.

Roope’s breath hitches loudly when Miro’s thumb ghosts a little too high, probably an inch or so from where his dick is, and Miro can’t help but glance down. He thinks Roope’s hard, it’s difficult to tell with his skinnies on. He knows his own dick is very, very interested in what’s happening and what might still happen. What he hopes could happen. The TV is still playing, but it feels like background noise, filling the silence that stretches out between them.

“The game’s over,” Roope says. He’s speaking quietly but it still startles Miro into looking up. Roope is still looking at the TV. Deliberately, Miro guesses. “I should probably get going.”

“Oh,” Miro says, and he thinks he does a terrible job of trying to conceal his utter disappointment. He’d thought-. Well, he’d been wrong, clearly. He takes his hand off Roope’s thigh and unconsciously curls into into a fist. “Right. Yeah.”

Roope looks at him then, and Miro doesn’t know what he sees that changes his expression, but whatever it is, Roope drifts closer, like he’s being pulled by an invisible thread. Miro holds his breath, waits until Roope’s barely a few millimeters away from him and his eyes close just as Roope’s lips brush over his in a whisper of a kiss.

“Oh,” Miro breathes, and then he presses closer, his kiss more hopeful, a little firmer, but just as fast.

Roope’s hands have somehow found their way into Miro’s shirt, bunching the material in his fingers like he’s holding on, like Miro could ever move away.

Their third kiss is slow and careful and lingers until Miro’s heart rate is dangerously high. He’s got a hand buried in Roope’s hair, his other hand wrapped around Miro’s arm, and he doesn’t want to let go.

“It was a pretty good first date,” Roope murmurs, his eyes dancing as Miro pulls back to stare at him.

Miro seriously thinks about chirping him.

He chooses to climb into Roope’s lap instead, straddling his hips and dipping down for a longer, more thorough kiss that has him wriggling on Roope’s thighs, both of them groaning when the friction feels just the right side of good.

“Don’t go home,” Miro says against his lips. It comes out like a whine.

“Yeah,” Roope says and sneaks his hands under Miro’s shirt. “Alright. I’m gonna stay.”


End file.
